Chapter 3 - THE BATTLE ON THE LANDING
The beam of Grant’s phone light caught my silhouette a fraction of a second before I closed the distance between us.
"You?!" Grant screamed, his face twisting into a hideous expression of rage and sudden terror. He dropped the phone and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black stun gun, its prongs crackling with a terrifying blue arc of electricity. "Get back, old man!"
He thrust the crackling stun gun directly toward my chest.
Twelve years in the Army logistics corps meant I spent years handling heavy machinery, heavy iron, and fast-moving hazards. You don't flinch when something hot comes at your face—you pivot.
I stepped inside the arc of his strike, driving the heel of my left palm straight into his wrist.
SNAP.
The stun gun flew out of his hand, bouncing down the marble stairs into the dark abyss below.
Before Grant could recover his balance, I grabbed his silk lapels with both hands, drove my knee violently into his midsection, and slammed him backward against the oak-paneled wall.
BOOM!
The glass frame of a multi-thousand-dollar oil painting shattered against his back, raining glass fragments onto the floor.
Grant gasped for air, his eyes bulging as he clutched at his stomach, sinking to his knees. "Dad... Dad, help me!"
Vivian Holloway let out a piercing, shrill scream, dropping her brass key ring onto the carpet. She scrambled backward toward the master bedroom, her hands raised in terror. "You're crazy! You're an intruder! I'll have you shot!"
"Touch that door handle, Vivian," I said, my voice dangerously calm as I stepped over Grant’s groaning body, picking up the heavy brass key ring from the floor, "and I will personally ensure your name is on every federal indictment Marcus Vance files tomorrow morning."
Vivian froze, her fingers hovering inches from her bedroom door handle. She looked at my eyes—cold, merciless, and completely devoid of fear—and slowly backed away, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
I didn't waste another second on her.
I turned to the heavy double doors at the end of the west hallway—the nursery suite.
The door was locked from the outside with an auxiliary brass deadbolt that had been installed recently, complete with fresh wood shavings still visible around the strike plate. They had literally turned my daughter’s bedroom into a private prison cell.
My hands shook as I sorted through the brass keys on the ring.
"Artie!" Marcus’s voice shouted from the bottom of the grand staircase. The heavy front doors had just been kicked open by the state police tactical squad. "We have the ground floor secured! Richard Holloway is in custody!"
"Upstairs, Marcus!" I yelled back, my thumb finding a long, square-cut skeleton key. "West wing!"
I shoved the key into the deadbolt.
CLICK.
I grabbed the brass lever, threw the heavy door open, and stepped into the dark room.
"Emily!" I called out, my voice cracking for the first time all night. "Emily, it's Dad!"
The room was in total disarray. A vanity table was knocked over, perfume bottles smashed against the hardwood floor. In the far corner of the room, curled into a tight ball behind a overturned armchair, sat my daughter.
Her wrists were bound behind her back with thick plastic zip-ties. Her left eye was swollen shut, dark purple bruising spreading across her pale cheekbone, and a strip of heavy silver duct tape covered her mouth.
When she heard my voice, her right eye snapped open.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She scrambled forward on her knees, her shoulders trembling, pressing her head directly against my chest as I dropped my flashlight and fell to my knees beside her.
"I'm here, baby," I whispered, my eyes burning with hot, blinding tears as I pulled my pocketknife and carefully sliced through the plastic ties around her wrists. "I'm here. Nobody is ever going to touch you again."
I gently peeled the silver tape from her lips.
Emily let out a long, shuddering sob, burying her face into the damp wool of my jacket. "Dad... they... they took my phone... Grant said... he said you'd never find me..."
"He was wrong," I said, pulling her up into my arms, lifting her off the cold floor as if she were seven years old again. "He was dead wrong."
I carried her out of the room into the bright halogen glow of the state police tactical flashlights that now illuminated the upper landing.
Special Agent Marcus Vance stood on the landing, his weapon holstered, watching me carry my daughter out. Behind him, two state troopers were hauling a handcuffed Grant Holloway to his feet.
Grant was spitting blood from his lip, glaring at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. "This is my house! She’s my wife! You can't do this!"
Marcus stepped up to Grant, pulling a thick laminated card from his vest.
"Grant Holloway," Marcus said, his voice echoing through the ruined mansion like a funeral bell. "You are under arrest for felony kidnapping, aggravated domestic assault, unlawful restraint, and witness intimidation. You have the right to remain silent..."
Grant’s eyes drifted toward me as he was pulled toward the stairs.
May you like
I stopped near the railing, holding my daughter tight against my chest. I looked Grant straight in the face, my voice quiet enough only for him to hear:
"You thought I was just a mechanic, Grant," I said softly. "Now you’re going to find out what happens when the engine you broke comes back to crush you."
